


Sam Shit, Different Day

by orphan_account



Series: Sam Surana One-Shots [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, NOW WITH ACTUAL WORDS IN IT WHAT, and possibly a plot, feat. cuties being cuties, probs a one-shot lol, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:49:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The blight is over and Sam Surana is finally free to enjoy dating Alistair without the constant threat of darkspawn over their heads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam Shit, Different Day

**Author's Note:**

> This story features my OC Sam Surana, who can also be found in my other fic, "What The Fuck (working title)". This other fic is a lot angstier than this one is, which means the name of this one may be misleading. The title of this fic was chosen purely for the pun. It doesn't have that much to do with the plo - well, you decide.

Hero of Ferelden.

It was still strange to hear it every time he walked down the street, to hear whispers of “That’s Sam Surana! He stopped the Blight!” every time he ducked around a piece of scaffolding. And he had to do that a lot, because scaffolding was everywhere.

Denerim had wasted no time in rebuilding. The streets had shrunk to a third of their normal width with all the rickety terraces of wood snaking up the sides of buildings, builders sitting on top and boasting about their latest lady conquests. Their voices drifted down and mixed with the bustle of the crowd around him. The gossip of wives going about their errands, the slosh of buckets as blood was scrubbed from the walls, the cries of the children that were always underfoot, and the screams of seagulls. Underneath it all was the bitter, pervasive reek of darkspawn. It wasn’t as bad as it had been a few days ago, when the bodies were being heaped onto carts to be taken outside the city and burned. Sam could see the column of smoke coming from the hills above the city. They were still burning them. It wasn’t just darkspawn, either.

“Hey, watch it, elf,” a voice behind him snapped. Sam realised he had stopped to stare at the smoke and stepped aside. The speaker was a grizzled old lady wheeling a rickety old barrow loaded with vegetables that looked like they hadn’t been attached to a plant for weeks. She shuffled past him, muttering.

“Insolent little knife ear, deliberately blocking the path for his betters, doesn’t even have the balls to apologise. Does no-one in this shithole of a city have any respect for their elders anymore?”

Sam bit the inside of his cheek to stop the response that bubbled to his tongue. Wynne would give him an earful if she knew he was disrespecting his new title by mouthing off at grouchy old ladies. He leant back against the scaffolding, trying to make more room so she would fuck off faster. An elf across the street, also waiting for her to pass, met his eyes and rolled her own, grinning. Sam felt himself grin back. _You smile at strangers now?_ It was something Alistair would do. Not Sam.

Nonetheless, here they were, grinning at each other as this old lady tried to negotiate her way around a pile of horse shit in the road, swearing profusely. She trod on Sam’s foot.

“Ow! What the fuck!”

She gave him a wide-eyed innocent look that was marred by the lips that were twisted into a malicious half grin.

“Maybe if you hadn’t left your useless little foot lying around in my way, I wouldn’t have trod on it. I see you’re just as bad at keeping your legs closed as your mother must have been. It’s the same with all your kind. Come to our cities and live in like rats, eating all our food and spreading diseases –“

“That food looks plenty diseased without my help,” Sam commented. He opened his mouth to dish out even more sick burns – sorry Wynne – and she slapped him.

“Hey!” yelled the girl across the street. “That’s the Hero of Ferelden you just hit!”

The lady scowled at Sam, who was rubbing his cheek and looking as hurt as possible.

“He can be the Hero of Fucking Off for all I care,” she snapped. Sam bit his lip to stop himself laughing. _Credit where it’s due, that’s a good one._

“He saved all our lives! Show some respect!” someone else yelled. Sam was aware that the whole street had stopped what it was doing and was staring at them. The old lady looked around at their silent and expectant audience, glaring from under grey brows that were matted and spiky as crow’s feathers.

“Move along, Agnes,” the elf said. Agnes looked around some more and then spat at the ground between Sam’s feet.

“Too many fucking elves in this city,” she muttered, and shuffled off. The street seemed to let out a collective breath and returned, after a moment, to its boisterous ruckus. The elf appeared at Sam’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry about Agnes. She’s like that with everyone.”

Sam snorted. “I wasn’t. Hag’s got nothing on a darkspawn.”

He looked at the elf again. She had short red hair and grinning hazel eyes.

“Oh hey, you’re –“

“Shianni. From the alienage. We never got a chance to properly thank you for what you did for us.”

Sam blushed. “Well, I mean, it wasn’t just me –“

Someone jostled them and Sam realised they were still blocking the street. He jerked his head in the direction of the marketplace.

“Come on, before some old witch yells at us for blocking the street again.”

They started walking, avoiding the congested main street in favour of a relatively clear side alley that would take them there faster. Sam felt amazed that he had gotten lost the first time he’d come to Denerim. He felt like he knew every inch of it now, after all the running around they’d done before the Landsmeet and in the final battle. He’d killed a darkspawn with a fireball and the explosion had thrown it into that wall just over there. It had been fucking awesome.

“So,” Shianni asked, after Sam had awkwardly accepted a bundle of flowers from a family he had apparently single-handedly rescued during the darkspawn invasion, “what’s the Hero of Ferelden doing slumming it in the marketplace with all of Denerim? Doesn’t the queen have big, important, diplomatic things for you to do?”

Sam laughed, looking for a place to put the flowers. The one good thing about robes were the pockets large enough to carry around a small dog inside, which this new fancy new shirt, jerkin and breeches, while making him look a solid 11/10, were sadly deficit in. He had to be content with holding the flowers.

“Well, no, actually. Grey Wardens aren’t supposed to be involved in politics at all.”

“You still put Anora on the throne,” Shianni pointed out. Sam shrugged.

“Yeah, well, that was different. Loghain made it personal, everybody got a bit carried away, and suddenly you’re standing at the Landsmeet with Loghain’s blood everywhere and all these posh humans staring at you and demanding you pick who gets to rule Ferelden. Bit rude to just say “fuck off”, really.”

Shianni laughed.

“True.”

They had reached the marketplace square now, which meant that it had got significantly noisier. It looked very different to when Sam had last been here. Gone were the makeshift barriers of tables and doors, the blood soaked into the dirt. The market stalls that had been used as barriers had been hastily knocked back into shape and repainted, or replaced altogether with rough scrappy blocks of wood. The place was trying desperately to pretend the blight had never happened. Sam could handle that.

“So, what _are_ you here for, then?” Shianni asked, as they dove into chatting crowds. Everyone was too focussed on shopping to notice the Hero of Ferelden in their very midst. Excellent.

“I’m looking for a present.”

“A gift?” Shianni elbowed him in the ribs, grinning. “For any tall, awkward and cute ex-templar grey warden in particular?”

Sam scoffed. “Well, when you ask an open-ended question like that…”

Shianni smirked. “ So what are you getting him?”

They stopped at a stall selling jewellery. Sam picked up a tiny carved dragon and turned it over in his hands. The tiny needle-like teeth pricked his fingers and he put it down hurriedly, wiping the drop of blood onto the bottom of his shirt and leaving a red smear on the bright white fabric. It was a brand new shirt. Whoops. Sam nodded at the stall owner and shuffled away before she could recognize him.

“I honestly have no idea,” he sighed.

He had given Alistair gifts before. The runestones he kept finding in the oddest of places; the grey warden puppet that Sam had, eventually, grudgingly, acted out a scene with, much to Alistair’s delight; and of course Alistair’s mother’s amulet, painstakingly repaired by Arl Eamon. But none of these things were really _personal._ There was nothing of Sam in them, nothing that said “I love you more than anything in the world.” There were words for that, of course, and Sam murmured them to Alistair every day, scarce believing that this was his own life, that such a thing could happen and also that Alistair would say the words back to him every time. It seemed frivolous to place so much into a _thing_ , some trinket, but it was something to touch when the other wasn’t there, a constant reminder that they weren’t alone. And after what Alistair had given Sam, well, Sam felt like he had a lot of catching up to do. Oh, of course it wasn’t a competition (not at all, no way), but…. Sam fondled the buttons on his jerkin and felt a smile grow on his face as he remembered where it had come from.

Sam awoke to the rasp of Alistair’s stubble on his face. A pair of soft lips planted a series of kisses on his face. Sam, without opening his eyes, smiled lazily and turned his face so that lip met lip. He broke off the kiss with a giggle because Alistair’s face was tickling him. All those unruly, scratchy hairs...it must be so odd to be a human.

He stretched out a hand to feel them and wound up poking Alistair in the cheek, which made Alistair make a soft squeaking noise and Sam giggle again. Sam ran his thumb over the prickly ends of the hair protruding from the skin. Scratchy, but also soft if he stroked them the right way.

“So weird,” he murmured. A hand covered his, warm and rough and so much larger. Sam half-opened his eyes. There was Alistair, planting a kiss on the back of Sam’s hand. They were squished right up against each other, Alistair’s leg hooked over Sam. Being this close was thoroughly unnecessary, given all the space in this bed they could have been utilising, but who gave a fuck? Sam felt, in the vast deep softness of this bed, that he was floating on clouds. He couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, he had felt this warm, this comfortable, this rested, this _clean_ – he remembered the vast bathtub he’d nearly fallen asleep in last night – or this loved. A lazy smile tugged at his face. He kissed Alistair again. The stubble scratched and tickled his palms as he caressed the sides of Alistair’s face.

“Good morning, my dear Hero of Ferelden,” Alistair said, when Sam finally pulled away. Sam grimaced.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Should I call you your majesty?”

“I’m not actually king though. You’re the real deal. A great big strong archdemon-slaying hero.”

“Alistair…” Sam grimaced again. Alistair’s face softened and he pulled Sam closer, so their chests were touching and Alistair’s nose brushed Sam’s.

“Sorry. I just wanted you to know that I love you, and I’m proud of you, and you mean so much to me.”

Sam traced his hand down Alistair’s chest, fiddled with the hair there. _So weird._

“It wasn’t just me. I couldn’t have done anything without you. I, ah, I..I love you too.” It was still hard to say, to admit aloud, for fear that he would be rejected, scorned for it, that at any second all of this could disappear. Instead Alistair smiled and kissed him.

They made out for a bit.

“Oh!” Alistair exclaimed, breaking off the kiss. “I got you something.”

“You couldn’t have waited until we finished,” Sam grumbled, but Alistair had rolled away and was scrabbling on the bedside table for something. Sam propped himself up on one elbow and stared at the way the hair on the back of Alistair’s head stuck up in every direction. All this time and he still had no idea how Alistair managed to make his hair do the thing. It just seemed to happen –

“Aha!” Alistair rolled back over and presented Sam with a piece of paper, folded in half.

“What’s this?”

Alistair motioned for him to open it. It was an address in Denerim. Perplexed, Sam stared at Alistair.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

Alistair grinned. “It’s a surprise. Go there.”

Sam groaned and sank back onto the pillows. “I hate surprises.”

Alistair didn’t say anything, but ran a finger over the scars on Sam’s chest. He planted a kiss on one of them, which made Sam shiver, not because it was unpleasant but because it felt _weird._ He’d never have imagined that anyone would ever find them any kind of loveable, but yet. Here he was, with the love of his life…Sam shook his head. He was getting distracted.

“Alistair. What’s the surprise?”

Alistair shook his head, grinning. Sam cupped his hand under Alistair’s chin and tilted his face upwards, kissing him on the lips.

“Please.”

“No.”

Sam kissed him again. “Pleeeeease.”

“Nope.”

“Ugh.” Sam ran a series of kisses down Alistair’s neck and along his collarbone, each punctuated with a “please” and met with a steadfast “no.”. Sam groaned.

“Just a hint,” he whined.

“It’s supposed to be a surprise!” Alistair protested. “What would be the point in a surprise if I told you what it was? It wouldn’t be surprising at all! How can a surprise be a surprise if it’s not, err, surprising?”

Sam sighed and pulled away.

“It’s a good surprise. You’ll like it,” Alistair continued, looking a bit anxious now. Sam stared very pointedly at a point across the room.

“I still hate surprises.” They’d been all about surprises at the tower, with all that business of dragging apprentices out of their beds for their Harrowing. Surprise! We’ve put a demon inside you and unless you can fight it off, we’re going to kill you! Have fun!

Alistair must have remembered this too because he touched Sam’s arm gently. Sam looked at him and remembered that this was Alistair, dear sweet Alistair who would never hurt him.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair said. “I’ll give you a hint, okay? Uh… you remember how you said you only ever had robes to wear? And how you hate them because they make you feel too…um…feminine?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I think I found a way to fix that.” Alistair threw his hands up. “That’s it! That’s all I’m saying!”

 _Clothes. It was fucking clothes._ Sam laughed. He’d been worried about fucking _clothes._ He planted a kiss on Alistair.

“Thank you.”

 

*

The piece of paper Alistair had given him led Sam to a sleek building in upper Denerim. The best-dressed mannequins Sam had ever seen were posed in the window like they were looking down and passing judgement upon all the scruffy less-fashionable passers-by. Above the door, an iconograph of a needle and thread declared the shop’s purpose, in case it wasn’t already obvious. A tiny bell tinkled when Sam pushed open the door. Upon closer inspection, it was made of silver wrought with delicate swirling patterns. Sam, despite the five baths he’d taken in the past week, suddenly felt very unkempt.

“Ah, hello, hello!”

The tailor emerged from the depths of the shop, beaming at Sam with several gold teeth. She was a dwarf, wearing a fine white dress emblazoned with several kilograms of pearls. The dress was at odds with the dwarf’s lined face and the pouch of pins, needles and thread thrown over her shoulder. She held out a wrinkled hand and Sam shook it, impressed with the strength of her grip. Her eyes gleamed with a mixture of grandmotherly charm and guile. Was this really the same person who had posed those intimidating mannequins?

“How can I help you, dearie?”

“Um…” Sam looked from the mannequins to the dwarf again. “I was told to come here?”

Her eyes widened and she clasped her hands together.

“Oh, you must be Sam! Alistair said you’d be coming along today. I should have known it was you; it’s not like I get many elves in here. Come along, then, and I’ll show you what he bought you.”

“What he bought me?” Sam had been expecting clothes, yes, but not from a place like _this_. Sam realised that he was still wearing the same robes he’d slain the archdemon in, the ones with long strings of frayed thread trailing off the cuffs, and hid his hands behind his back. The tailor, on the other hand, seemed almost to glow with delight.

“Oh, he didn’t tell you? You’re in for a treat! Come along, dearie, and I’ll show you.”

She took Sam’s arm and led him through a gauntlet of rolls of fabric to a back room. There, hanging on stands, was an entire wardrobe of clothing. Shirts, trousers, shoes, fancy belts, kerchiefs, everything. The dwarf beamed.

“This is all for you, love.”

Sam stopped gaping at the clothes and gaped at her. “I – you – what?”

She nodded. “That’s what he said. He picked these all out for you. Give me the most dashing clothes in the shop, he sad. I want to someone special look extra handsome.”

Trembling, Sam stretched a hand to rub the fabric of one of the shirts between his fingers. Silk. It was finely cut, expensive and sophisticated without being overly flashy. The kind of thing a human noble with so many sovereigns he had to build an extra house to keep them in would wear. And there were five of them, in different cuts and colours and styles, but all of them clothing Sam desperately wanted to see himself in. And there were fine breeches, and fine shoes, and a pair of sturdy looking boots, and a worked leather belt with a pouch that looked the perfect size for carrying potions…

Sam looked at the tailor. “How much did all this cost?”

She shook her head and wagged a finger.

“Now, don’t worry about any of that. Your friend specifically told me not to tell you.”

 _Friend? You don’t know the half of it, lady._ Sam’s fingers fiddled with the cuffs of his robe, the robe that was baggy in all the wrong places and made him trip over his own feet and shopkeepers address him as “madam”. Which this one had not done at all, he now realised. She was looking at him with a sly look in her eye. He imagined the freedom of wearing trousers, of legs that could run without having to hitch up wads of fabric…

“Come on,” she coaxed. “At least try them on.”

Sam shifted his feet. He could feel the ground through the souls of his boots. Alistair wouldn’t have bought all this if he couldn’t afford it, right? People kept giving them presents and shit. Alistair had probably gotten some money, and besides, he’d already paid, Sam might as well take advantage of it. _Trousers._ How glorious.

“Oh, alright,” Sam said.

Off with the robe. It caught the air as Sam threw it away and fluttered to the ground like a vast misshapen parachute. _Good fucking riddance._ Goodbye shoes. Pull on the first pair of trousers that came to hand. Cinch the belt as tight as it can go. Shirt. Made of silk, it slithered lightly across his scars and rested lightly upon his belt. But that wasn’t it, wasn’t there was some kind of sleeveless shirt thing people wore over the top of their shirts? Sam chose a quilted blue tunic. Grey Warden blue. He was sure the colour wasn’t a coincidence. Sam buttoned it up, took a deep breath, and turned to the mirror.

“I am never wearing robes again!” he declared.

There he was, looking skinny and small as always – not helped by the fact that all the clothes were too big for him and hung off his frame like he was a coathanger – but he looked...good. Sam turned to the side and admired how the fabric looked as it clung to his chest, how wonderfully flat. How the collar accentuated his cheekbones.

“Oh dear, this is all too big,” the tailor fretted, tugging the seams in tighter and securing them with pins. “These are the smallest clothes I’ve got in the shop, but, like I said, we don’t get many elves in here. Whip it off again, sweetie, and I’ll have it all adjusted for you in a jiffy.”

“Oh,” Sam pulled the clothes back off, marvelling at how even the fabric in the place screamed “I am better than you” as it slid across your skin with perfect smoothness. The tailor bundled them together and whisked them away. Sam, suddenly in his underclothes, looked towards the display window and was glad that the rolls of fabric blocked him from the view of people passing by. He examined the rest of the clothes, felt the soft and varied fabrics. Silk, cotton, lambswool… a far cry from that shitty rough cotton potato sack he’d been wearing. Sam gave the robe, still heaped on the floor, a vindictive little kick. _This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me… how the fuck am I ever going to repay him for this?_

That was a problem for later. Sam was interrupted by the return of his newly fitted clothes. He put them on and gazed in the mirror. He looked, for once, like the Hero of Ferelden. He looked rich, capable, and above all, _handsome._ Sam reached out a hand to touch his face in the mirror. Handsome. He’d never dared to hope that one day he’d be able to claim that word. Thought he’d be stuck as some kind of weird androgynous ugly forever. But there he was. Handsome.

_I can’t wait to show Alistair._

“So, you’ll take it then?” The tailor beamed knowingly.

“Oh, yes,” Sam breathed.

“Right, so if I can get your measurements I can adjust the rest of these and have them sent to you –“

“Okay.”

Sam hopped from foot to foot as he waited for her to finish. _Come on, come on._ When at last she rolled the measuring tape back up, Sam mumbled a thanks and headed for the door. _Alistair._

“What about your old clothes?” she called. Sam shrugged and threw a laugh over his shoulder.

“Burn them!”

His new boots were springy and comfortable and his legs were unconfined and he could _run,_ Maker he could _run._ Never mind that Heroes of Ferelden weren’t supposed to sprint everywhere like street brats. Where was Alistair? Sam dashed up the hill to the palace.

He still couldn’t get used to running past guards and have them call out a greeting instead of barring his path. He bumped into Wynne just inside the palace doors and grabbed her to offset the wobble from him nearly colliding with her.

“Sorry, sorry.”

She gave him a look that was smiling underneath the stern. “Hello Sam. You’re looking rather dashing today – and I mean that in both terms of the phrase.”

Sam winced. “Sorry. Have you seen Alistair?”

“I think he’s in the training yard –“

“Okay, thanks.”

Sam shot off again. The training yard was on the other side of the palace, of course. Gasping, Sam slowed to a walk when he could hear the sound of something being hit. Was Alistair alone? He’d get embarrassed if Sam rushed in and started making a scene.

Still puffing, Sam ducked behind a pillar and peered into the yard. Indeed, it was just Alistair, hitting a training dummy with his sword and glistening with sweat. Hearing his grunts and groans of exertion, Sam decided that when you weighed up the potential losses and gains of exercise the extra muscle was not just worth the effort.

Alistair gave the dummy one last hit and let out a groan, dropping his arm to his side and scraping the tip of his blunt practice sword on the ground. Wiping the sweat from his face, he dropped the sword and stumbled over to a side bench. He pulled his shirt over his head and used it to wipe the sweat from his now bare chest. Sam, still hiding behind the pole, grinned.

_Niiiiice._

But he wasn’t here to stare at Alistair. Sam ducked behind the fringe of bushes that surrounded the training yard and crept towards his boyfriend. The yard was a square of sand edged with bushes and a balcony up above looking down, the supporting pillars of which Sam had been hiding behind. There was no need to be particularly stealthy – Alistair was staring at his hands and his eyes had that vacant look of exhaustion in them that Sam knew so well.

 _Maybe this isn’t the best time._ Sam paused and licked his lips, peeping over the top of the hedge. Alistair was gazing at a cloud that looked like a dog and making barking motions with his hand. _No, he’s fine._

Padding softly in his new boots, sticking out his tongue in concentration, Sam crept around until he was standing directly behind him. A moment of indecision suddenly took hold of him, making him pause with his hand hovering directly above Alistair’s shoulder. _What if I don’t actually look that good? What if he only bought these clothes so I’d be less attractive and it’d be easier to break up with me?_ Sam shook his head. _Not now, Surana._ Before the hand dropped to his side and he slunk away to stew in his self-imposed misery, Sam tapped Alistair on the shoulder.

Alistair jumped and dropped the sweat-stained shirt he was still holding.

“Maker damn it, Zevran, how many times do I ha –“

Alistair’s voice trailed off and he stared at Sam. A flush of heat crept up Sam’s neck and into his cheeks. He fiddled with his collar, unable to meet Alistair’s eyes. Silence stretched like elastic.

“Um,” Sam squeaked, fighting a sudden tightness in his chest, “do you like it?”

“You have never looked more like yourself.”

Sam raised his head and frowned at Alistair. There was a look on his face Sam didn’t dare name. Beneath those wide, wondering eyes, his mouth gaped open in – awe?

“What?” Sam said.

Alistair waved his hands in an I-don’t-know gesture. “You look…happy. And comfortable. Like you’re wearing what you’re always supposed to be wearing. You look – you are honestly the most attractive person I have ever seen.”

A smile grew on Sam’s face, and that tightness inside his chest receded. “So you like it?”

Alistair’s eyes drifted over every inch of Sam. “I do.”

Sam felt a lightness in his chest, a bubbly sensation like champagne that made him feel like he could bounce into the air and float away. Beaming, he took Alistair’s hands.

“Alistair,” he said, staring into his fellow warden’s eyes. This was probably where the kind of fancy noble who would normally wear these clothes would make a speech, purple prose and grandiose declarations of love and gratitude. Whatever. That wasn’t Sam. “Thank you.”

The words were an “I love you”. Alistair’s face melted.

“It was my pleasure.”

Sam went in for a kiss but Alistair pulled his head away. Sam frowned.

“Hey, what’s that all about?”

“I don’t want to get your new clothes all sweaty!”

“Really? _Really?”_ Sam rolled his eyes at Alistair, who was giving him a mortified look and holding his body as far away from Sam as possible. “Look, I wore the same robe for six months and it came out of it in one piece. I’m sure these clothes can deal with a bit of sweat.”

Alistair ran his hand down the felted and embroidered brocade on Sam’s arm. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure that you’re ruining the mood.”

“I just don’t want to do –“

“Alistair, for fuck’s sake, I give you my express permission to get your disgusting, stinking, rancid exercise sweat all over my brand new shirt.”

Alistair winced. “Ew, it’s even worse when you say it like _that.”_

“Maker – Alistair, please just let kiss you right this second so I can give you thanks for these amazing new – Waugh!”

Without so much as a word of warning, Alistair had sprung to his feet and lifted Sam off the ground, spinning him around. Sam let out a yelp of delight. There was something incredibly exciting about having all his weight suspended by Alistair’s arms, in being free of the ground. Like flying. But.

“This still isn’t kissing,” Sam pointed out. Alistair laughed and set him down again, but he didn’t let go.

“Have I told you how handsome you look in that shirt? You look like a prince. A gorgeous prince with the finest bone structure –“

“Oh, shut up.” Sam pulled Alistair’s face down and kissed it. Kissing was always a little difficult for Sam, because Alistair was so much taller. He had to be on the tips of his toes to reach. Alistair’s arms hooked under his made this a little easier. After a moment, Alistair let out a frustrated noise and hoisted Sam up onto the chair he’d been sitting on. Now Sam was the tall one, but it was a little better. They continued kissing, Sam knotting his fingers in the sweaty wayward mess of Alistair’s hair. Something in the back of Sam’s brain was in constant wonder in all this, that this man had seen every bad and horrible and wretched part of Sam and yet here he still was, kissing Sam back every bit as furiously as Sam was. Sam mouthed out the words _I love you_ onto Alistair’s lips.

Finally, they broke apart to get their breath back. Alistair sniffed Sam’s sleeve.

“Aww, your clothes are all stinky now,” he complained. Sam felt a boisterous lightness inside himself.

“Why don’t we go take them off, then?”

You could make out with Alistair for ten minutes and he’d think nothing of it, but talk even a little bit dirty and he’d blush instantly, even after all this time. Sam stroked his pink cheek with his thumb, felt the heat. So cute.

“Let’s go,” Alistair agreed.

“I love you,” Sam murmured again, as Alistair let go off him and collected his shirt and sword, the back of his neck still pink. If Sam reach it, he would have kissed it. _So cute._ Alistair shifted all his gear to one hand and took Sam’s in the other.

“I love you too.”

Off they went to their room, where for several long –

“Helloooooo?” Shianni waved her hand in front of Sam’s face. “Are you in there?”

Sam, still fiddling with his buttons, realised that he had the goofiest of smiles upon his face. He cleared his throat.

“Uh. Yeah. I have no idea what to buy him.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> What does Sam get for Alistair? I don't know. That's why the story stops here.


End file.
